Fairy Tale
by goldengrove
Summary: The story of Tom Riddle's parents, their brief life together, and his mum's letter to Tom.


He sees her in the butcher shop. She is small and skinny, her hair dark and pulled away from her pale face with a kerchief. She is dressed in ordinary clothing; a long jacket with a fur ruff is unbuttoned over her white blouse and tan jacket. At her neck is a cameo broach. To him, she is beautiful; she is exotic. He watches her as the butcher weighs a small slab of pork for her, it's even better, despite her appearance she is not one of them. His parents would approve.  
  
"I'll pay for that," he walks up behind her smiling at her, she casts him an emotionless look, dull. "My name is Tom," he says graciously.  
  
She looks slightly fearful, "I am Tatyana," she replies. Her accent is still thick; the eastern twang excites him. "You need not do that."  
  
"I would like to," Tom reassures her. He hands over twenty pence to the butcher who packs the pork in waxy brown paper and ties it with string. He winks at Tom as he hands Tatyana her package. She looks almost like a child, holding the package like a gift-wrapped toy. She looks up at him fearfully; he smiles down, hoping he looks benevolent.  
  
"Thank you so very much," she says.  
  
Tom reaches out to touch her shoulder; "it was my pleasure." He throws a glance over his shoulder at the darkening sky. "I would like to walk you home, it isn't safe for a woman to be out now."  
  
A look akin to defiance crosses her face but fades quickly, "I would like that, thank you." She nods to the butcher and together they step out into the twilight.  
  
"I am Thomas Riddle," he fully introduces himself as he places his bowler hat back onto his head. She steps forward hesitantly on the frosted cobblestone street. There is frozen horse dung in the middle, seeming out of place with the sleek automobiles parked intermittently on the street. "What's your surname, Tatyana?" The name flows off his tongue like fine cognac.  
  
She bows her head slightly; "it is Zhenechka."  
  
He chuckles lightly, "that's quite a mouthful. I believe I will just call you Tatyana. Will you call me Tom?"  
  
"All right," Tatyana pauses shyly, "Tom." Her voice and mouth have been made for her to say his name. Her face is too thin, she looks too old and yet she seems so young. She is leading him towards her house now. He notes that they are headed for the East Side of the town, Immigrant Alley.  
  
"How old are you?" he asks, and then backtracks. "I am just curious, I'm sorry if I offend you."  
  
She smiles, "I am not offended. I am almost eighteen." He speech is so formal. He knows she has taken lessons, but from where? She couldn't have learned it in her home country. And in England? No. Perhaps somewhere on the continent. Germany? Switzerland? France?  
  
He is taken aback. She seems older. His age of thirty-three now seems ancient, like he has become something to be studied in a museum. She interrupts him from his reverie, "may I ask, Tom, how old are you?"  
  
"I am thirty-three," he whispers, looking at the ground in front of him.  
  
"You must know much," she answers back. She steps back slightly, smiling at him. Shifting the package to her right hand, she slips her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. He meets her dark blue eyes, she is smiling, she accepts him. "With age we become wise," she tells him this as if she is telling him a salacious secret.  
  
They walk in silence for several moments. He is aware of her, the sound of her breathing, the swish of her skirt, the click of her heels against the cold ground. He can feel the weight of her gloved hand against his forearm. He imagines his can feels its heat radiating from her small body through the two layers of heavy wool. Abruptly, they stop in front of a small building. One of the buildings thrown together cheaply after the war.  
  
"Thank you," says Tatyana. "I am afraid to walk alone."  
  
He smiles at her, "I am always willing to help." They stand uncomfortably for several seconds. "May I see you again?" he asks, holding his breath.  
  
She looks up at him and smiles again, her closed lipped shy smile, "yes," she says, "please." She removes her glove and holds her warm palm to the side of his face before turning and disappearing behind a heavy door.  
  
+++  
  
Tatyana lies in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. It is webbed with cracks and spotted with water stains. She does not want herself to want to see him again, but she cannot help it. Thomas Riddle. A marvelous name. So much less cumbersome then the names in mother Russia. Dmitri Boryenka. Yasha Maksimilliam. Kristof Boldizsar. Marvolo Gyala Zhenechka.  
  
She wants to forget why she is here. She does not want to be in her real mother country. Britain. Where her forefather, Salazar Slytherin, founded a fine wizarding school. She does not want to be a witch. She does not want to be the reason that he parents will die penniless and will be buried in pauper's graves.  
  
Since the revolution, the wizarding future in Russia has been uncertain. Her parents have spent the dwindling family inheritance on her education. She speaks King's English. She will lose her accent and become one with the people her forefather was exiled from. She will be the last hope for the Slytherin family blood. Soon Stalin will implement a new plan, a plan to industrialize. Wizards are not industrialized. They have been rounded up and executed, with guns and knives, nothing that a spell can block. Some have escaped. Many will not. Her parents have decided to be part of that many. She is their hope. She will come to where her ancestor was tossed from like so much garbage. She will create a life; she will marry a wizard and have wizard children. They will attend Hogwarts. There are a thousand years of pure wizard blood in her veins. She will not spoil that.  
  
Her parents want her to avenge their exile. For generations the story has been passed down from parent to child, the Chamber of Secrets. Tatyana does not like to think about it. Basilisks do not interest her. They frighten her and she does not want their power. She does not want her ability to converse with snakes. She wants to be normal. She wants to marry a rich man and have normal happy children. She wants to die without blood on her hands.  
  
Tom, Thomas, he is intriguing and revolting. He is normal. He does not wield a wand and he is simply a gentile. He does not have an upper class accent, but his mannerisms are pure upper class. Tatyana wants to be with him. And she doesn't want to just stand next to him. She wants to see him. She wants to see all of him, and she does not understand this new desire.  
  
He is thirty-three. He is not interested in a young immigrant girl. She lied to him too, in April she will be sixteen.  
  
+++  
  
He hates to admit it to himself, but he is following her. He watches her as she leaves her small apartment the next day. Today the coat is buttoned up. The fur collar nearly hides her head as she walks swiftly down the street. She is nearly hit by a speeding automobile, a German one, it is black. The driver yells something almost lewd at her as she hurries her pace. Tom wants to hit him. He wants to tear him apart for suggesting something so crude to the only flower the winter can see. He follows her stealthily. He has gone to the attic of his home and pulled a moth eaten winter jacket and a top hat from a trunk. None of the squatty black haired men or sad faced women will give him another glance.  
  
She turns abruptly into a building on the outskirts of town. A slaughterhouse. This strikes Tom as odd; didn't he meet her at the butcher yesterday? Perhaps there is no pork at this slaughterhouse. Perhaps there is only beef, or lamb. He does not ponder this for long. She is too perfect to wonder about. And his father will wonder where he is, he was supposed to just be dropping off money at the bank.  
  
+++  
  
Tatyana is a secretary for a cauldron company. They like her because she adds a certain foreign flavour to the room and she speaks perfect English, which is more than can be said for the Cockney girl in the desk next to hers. Her desk is in front of the owner's office, Accalon Malfoy. She feels a special thrill whenever he enters, he is not there often, he owns many companies. Sometimes when he enters he gives her a look over, she makes sure to push her small breasts out further, to lean over to pick up a carelessly dropped item. Her parents made sure that her papers did point out that she was a pureblood. The name Malfoy is famous worldwide.  
  
He wasn't in today. She is slightly disappointed as she buttons up her coat and tucks her wand into one of the deep pockets. A researcher walks by and smiles at her, his hair is greying.  
  
She exits into the slaughterhouse. They can't see her in here; there is a charm to keep the employees from being seen as they exit out onto the street. As she closes the door behind her and exhales the scent of blood from her lungs, someone tall and heavy walks into her, she and the person sprawl to the ground. She panics slightly, being crushed under this heavy masculine chest. Until she hears Tom's voice and relaxes, she is not quite sure that she wants him to move off of her. What suffocated her is now like a soft blanket stuffed with feathers.  
  
He does move, however, and he helps her to her feet. "I'm terribly sorry," he says, before recognizing her, "Tatyana!"  
  
"Tom," she says. She feels cold now. She shivers.  
  
His eyes widen. "I'm so sorry, did you get ice in your hair?" He puts strong hands on her arms. "Let's get you back to your flat and warm you up." He remembers the way, she notes as he pulls her along. She stumbles a little because he walks so fast.  
  
Quickly they are at the building. She has a choice. She can dismiss him. She can send him back to his gentile life. Or she can allow him in. Allow him to follow her up the dirty linoleum stairs and to her sad weathered doormat and small flat. And she does.  
  
They stand in the doorway. Her living room and kitchen are combined. It is small. She is aware of how sad it all is. The last living heir of Slytherin crammed in here. Her possessions in plain view. There are no secrets here. Her bedroom has no door, no curtain to pull, she feels like she is naked.  
  
He takes in the apartment, she thinks he sees it uncritically. He sees the kettle on her stove and he fills it with the water from the bucket on the back burner. In winter the well doesn't pump. They have to rely on melted snow. She wonders if he lives in a house with running water. With a heater. Here she has electricity. She is miles ahead some others.  
  
He sits her down and removes her jacket. Underneath she wears another blouse and skirt ensemble, mauve and dark grey. Today she does not wear her cameo.  
  
The kettle has boiled and he spoons tealeaves into the pot. He brings her a cup of tea. This has never happened before. Her parents refused to do anything for her. They raised her to care for herself, they knew that she would be here before long.  
  
"Thank you," she whispers, accepting the milky brew from him. She places it on the table next to her chair and smiles at his face, just inches from hers. He smiles back and breathes in slightly, quickly, he leans his face in and he kisses her. Although she knows she shouldn't, she responds.  
  
+++  
  
It is the first time he has never had to pay. Their coupling is quick and desperate. He does not actually want to do this too her, to take her innocence, not this soon, but he cannot control himself. He does not even ask if she wants him, he just carries her to the bedroom.  
  
Afterwards he feels guilty. His face has come to rest in the sweaty crook of her neck. He can smell her, musky and dark with an undertone of sweet, like coffee with very little sugar. "I'm sorry," he says. He looks up. There are tears on her face. "Tatyana?" he asks, wiping the tears away with his thumb.  
  
She is attempting to roll away from him, but his weight is too heavy. She turns her head away. "You will not want to see me anymore," she whimpers. "I have given away my decency."  
  
"You are decent," he assures her, "you are perfect." He removes his weight from her but he leans his face against her shoulder. When he speaks his lips brush her skin. "I will come back. I will always be here. Even if we never do. this again, I will come back. I love you."  
  
Another sob escapes her lips but she turns to him, she wraps her arms around him and cradles him. He falls asleep with his face between her breasts.  
  
+++  
  
They have met so many times. Every time now, it is the same. Always at her apartment, he lives with his parents. He has taken her there, introduced her. He is courting her. Someday they will be married. His parents tested her; they fed her pork, asked her when her Sabbath day was. She told them the proper answers. He has told them that she is twenty- four. It is the age on her forged papers.  
  
She thinks that everything is perfect. She knows that she has missed her last monthly cycle. She sees this as a blessing, no longer does she have to worry about the pain or the mess. Love has fixed her body to be in God's image. She will live as a muggle, Salazar Slytherin be damned.  
  
It is the Cockney girl, Laudine, who notices the slight swelling of her stomach. She corners Tatyana in the bathroom, accosts her.  
  
"Gotten yourself in a bit of trouble, love?" she asks, absently adjusting her clothing in the mirror.  
  
Tatyana cocks an eyebrow, "pardon?"  
  
Laudine reaches out, runs her hand along the new roundness, "who's the father? Is it Malfoy? I've seen him look at you, like how a fat man looks at a pie."  
  
"What do you mean?" She is insulted at being compared to a pie.  
  
"You're pregnant," Laudine says matter-of-factly. "Didn't you notice?"  
  
Tatyana feels ill. She thinks of all that she's gone through in the last four months. She thinks of Tom, saying that love made her round out, it suited her. He didn't spend the nights; he didn't see her throw up into her chamber pot. "Oh," she says. She puts her hand to her stomach and she imagines a fluttering. She imagines a baby.  
  
She imagines telling Tom the truth.  
  
+++  
  
"I am. with child." The words are hesitant but they cut through Tom like a knife. He looks at his lover, lying naked and vulnerable on the bed. She cradles her rounded stomach cautiously and Tom freezes on the spot. He thinks of the signs. Her rounding belly, her suddenly vigourous appetite, catching her in the morning on his bank run, the smell of vomit on her breath. He looks at the growth, like a parasite, it is too late to do anything about it.  
  
"We'll, we'll get married then," he says confidently. "Soon. With a priest, in a few weeks. Husband and wife," he swallows, "forever."  
  
He sees hesitance in her eyes. "Tom," she says, she rolls onto her side to face him, "I have to tell you the truth."  
  
A feeling a freedom rises in him. She doesn't love him. She'll leave the town. She'll get a knife in the stomach at work. It doesn't matter. She has been a good fuck for four months. He doesn't want her anymore. He is free.  
  
"I." she looks away from him. "I am sixteen, not eighteen." Damn. She'll need him to support her. He's trapped. "And." she breathes deeply, "I am a witch."  
  
He bursts into laughter. She's using humour to make him feel better. A witch. Like hell she could be, witches are things of fairy tales. She looks sad.  
  
"I am not joking," she reaches for her coat; out of the pocket she pulls a long thin piece of wood. A polished branch. Steadily she points it towards the wall, "diffindo." A crack snakes up the wall, opening into a hole. Tom feels his mouth gape open.  
  
"Devil," he says out loud.  
  
+++  
  
She is getting smaller and the baby is getting larger. She knows it will kill her, but she does not care. Tom has left. He is not coming back. Not long after she revealed herself to him, Mr. Malfoy called her into his office. He shut the door behind her.  
  
"You're pregnant, Tatyana," he said matter-of-factly. His eyes roved over her body. "You're not married. You're very young."  
  
She nodded, unsure of what to do.  
  
He sighed, leaning against his desk. "I know about you. I know that you are the last heir of Slytherin. And I know that child must be half muggle." He looked almost broken. "It can't be anyone in the company. And there are no other wizards in your village." He looked at her again. "When you are done with this Tatyana, send it away. Orphan it, let it be adopted. It does not matter. I will marry you. And our children will be Slytherin's heirs."  
  
She had felt relieved. She could abandon it. She loved it, but she did not want it. She did not want a replica of the man she loved so much.  
  
Now, she still appreciates Malfoy's offer. He pads her paycheque. She puts it away. She knows that she will die either in or after childbirth. Mr. Malfoy will not marry her; he does not know this. He is simply keeping her pregnancy quiet from the staff. He is good with illusion charms.  
  
Today Tatyana needs to make a trip to Gringotts. She will use floo powder to get there from work. She is writing a note to her child. She knows it is a boy. She has chosen his name, Tom Marvolo Riddle. The two men who conspired to ruin her life. She loves her child as a mother should, but she cannot like him. If it is somehow a girl she will name her Thomasina. Either way she begins her letter with Dear Tom. She writes at her desk. She will write a letter to him and place it in her vault. She has one month until the due date. She will take out enough money to live for one month. Her last month. She will send the key to Hogwarts. They will collect Tom when he is old enough to go. Until then he will live. wherever. In an orphanage. An asylum. A family. She does not care.  
  
Dear Tom,  
  
I write this to you before I die. I know I will die and I have come to terms with it. You are my child and for you I will sacrifice, but it is not so much a sacrifice anymore. I was born in 1910 in St. Petersburg, Russia. It is now called Leningrad. When I was born, a tsar ruled the country, he tried to be benevolent, but the country was too large. When I was seven, he and his family were massacred. The new government set out to do this to anyone who opposed them or stood in their way. The wizard families stood in their way. Many of them were slaughtered. Next year, 1928, a new plan will come into Russia. All wizards who have not fled will be killed. They will be massacred like benevolent Nicholas.  
  
But Tom, you mustn't weep for Russia. I weep for Russia because I was born there. But you were born in Britain, just as your great forefather, Salazar Slytherin was. Through your veins, my child, the blood of Salazar Slytherin runs warm. You are the last standing heir of Slytherin, and I hope that gives you pride, for I have no pride left to give you. There is a legend that the seventh generation is the true generation, the generation that is most powerful. You are the seventh generation, I hope you use that power instilled in you.  
  
You will attend the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You forefather created that school and from that school he was driven. The others drove him to Russia where he died a pauper and his heirs were hunted. I will also die a pauper. I don't want you to die, my child, but I don't want you to be buried in a pauper's grave. That is why I will tell you of the Chamber of Secrets. The chamber is said to open only to the true heir of Slytherin that would be you. I don't know the entire story. I know that a brass pipe is the entrance to the chamber and I know that inside rests a basilisk. You will be able to control this basilisk. You have a gift that all the descendents of Slytherin possess, you are a parseltongue.  
  
I want you to know that I love you. I love you as only a mother can. I love you despite who you are and who you may be. I love you although your birth has torn my love from my side and made him malign my name. I love you because you are the same as me. And yet still I hate you. I cannot help this and I tell you this only because I want your forgiveness and approval. I want you to read this letter and understand that your silly, frightened, forever sixteen-year-old mother has a reason for not being here.  
  
Love forever,  
  
Tatyana Riddle  
  
She lies, too, to her child. And then she closes the envelope, seals it and smoothes her hair down. Decisively she takes the floo powder and walks to the fireplace. She throws it in and shouts, "Diagon Alley." 


End file.
